A Friend In Need
by DirtyFox2
Summary: Booth is troubled by events from his past as a Sniper and Brennan attempts to alleviate that with uncertain suggestion. Finished. Hope you enjoy it.
1. Chapter 1

His fingertips lightly danced along the aluminum material, feeling every letter of the engravings. The sheen had long since left the identification tags—in fact it had been replaced by a dull ruddy brown hue, evidence of the blood spilled by its original owner.

Booth's brown eyes gazed at the dog tags somberly, memories flooding his brain. His mind wandered to the past; something he'd done his best to avoid. But he was bemused now, his brain awash with uncertainty as he had flooded it with several servings of whiskey.

_ "Bravo One-Niner, Bravo One-Niner, this is Dark Side Six, be advised you have been given clearance to take the shot. I repeat, command has given you clearance to take the shot," a voice crackled over the handset of an AN/PRC-119 SINCGARS radio. _

_ "There's the call we've been waiting for, Sergeant," a young Corporal quietly informed his partner, placing the radio handset on the ground beside him. He inched forward, pressing his eyes behind a telescopic spotting scope._

_ This young Corporal and his slightly older Sergeant was a pair of US Army Rangers from Alpha Company, 1__st__ Ranger Battalion, 75__th__ Ranger Regiment, an elite light infantry organization within the USSOCOM community. Beyond that, however, they were snipers—skilled soldiers trained to expert levels in marksmanship, surveillance, reconnaissance, and target acquisition._

_ Marksmanship was the skill set of particular importance on this operation, however. The pair had been sent on National Commander Authority to assassinate a man. This man was a senior ranking officer in the Serbian army and he had been responsible for a spat of ethnic cleansing operations launched by the Serb forces in the region. As a result, Sergeant Seeley Booth and Corporal Edward "Teddy" Parker had been selected to travel to likely locations where the General may reveal himself. They were just one team of many that were scattered throughout the countryside hoping to get a shot at the General. _

_ While lying quietly in their location on a heavily wooded ridgeline where they had constructed their hide they observed countless atrocities in the valley below. Soldiers had been rounding up civilians from a nearby village, shooting them without provocation and then dumping them in mass graves. The campaign of terror had taken several days and the pair of snipers had observed the entire ordeal, helplessly forced to witness genocide from a front row seat. _

_ It was particularly trying for Sergeant Booth, a Roman Catholic and a man of great faith. He found that faith was now in doubt as he watched men kill women and children, chiefly because of the God they chose to worship, or so it appeared to Booth. How could man excuse themselves for such atrocities? _

_Booth was a killer, he never tried to rationalize that fact. He was trained to be a precise assassin. A man that could be dropped miles from any friendlies, given an objective and then carry it out with complete and total dedication to the assigned task. He was a blunt object, a tool for his government to kill those they deemed deserving of Booth's bullet. It was an odd notion of himself given what he now watched; the needless and merciless slaying of people for no apparent reason—certainly not one that he found recognizable. These men were killers, too, but were they all the same? In the end taking a life is the same whether or not it's the horrid business these men took part in, or the government sanctioned so-called legal murder that Booth carried out; the very thing he was here to do. _

_These thoughts had raged through his mind through the chilly days and bone-freezing nights as he and Parker surveyed the bloodshed unfolding below them. They couldn't speak much between one another, but they were both disgusted and knew neither of them would be the same after witnessing such things._

_After a few days their target finally presented himself. He was a portly fellow, dressed in a fine uniform befitting an officer and capped with a cover reminiscent of Soviet Russia which sat atop his balding pate. _

_Booth had watched him keenly through the telescopic sight of his M24 high-precision rifle. The white hue of his hawkish eyes peered ominously from the backdrop of his camouflaged face which was saturated with a multitude of colors; greens, browns and grays. _

_His face took on a harsh appearance as he now seemed possessed by the Grim Reaper himself. He was determined to put this man down, to end this General's string of horrid orders. Would it end the war? Would it stop the killing? No, he very much doubted that—but it was a small measure of retribution in a place inundated with death and horror. A man like this couldn't be allowed to continue breathing and Booth was a perfect instrument to ensure that would not happen. _

_The General paced along a formation of troops assembled before him for inspection. Smoke billowed from fires that burned unchecked in the village behind them. The dead that had not been collected still lay unattended in the streets, like trash so easily discarded by an uncaring litterer._

"_Distance to target, eight hundred and eighty two meters…" Parker said quietly after quickly consulting the range card he had drawn in the days preceding the target's arrival. "Wind, half-value, three knots west—come two left." As the spotter it was Corporal Parker's job to estimate range and collaborate with the shooter to ensure a more accurate shot. If Booth missed, which was unlikely, Parker would observe the flight of the bullet and where it impacted then relay necessary adjustments in order for the shooter to find his mark. _

"_On target…" Booth muttered._

"_Fire when ready."_

_Booth was calm, an eerie sort of serenity fell over him as he readied himself for the shot. He controlled his breathing, ensured the butt-stock of his rifle was firmly in place in the pocket of his shoulder and focused on the center mass of his target, the overweight General. Several seconds passed and Booth's finger lightly rested on the trigger of his weapon. Another moment went by; Booth exhaled and carefully pulled the trigger of the M24 to the rear._

_The jolt from the recoil stung his shoulder only lightly and a slight vapor trail showed the path of the bullet. Its flight time was just over a second and Booth had struck his target. _

_The .308 round bore into the General's chest, eviscerating his rib cage and any internal organs it had impacted. Booth meanwhile cycled the bolt of his weapon, chambering another round and firing off a second shot just for good measure. After a second of flight time that round also found its target; which happened to be the head of the General. It pierced his skull with ease and showered the soldiers beyond with the contents of the man's head. _

_For a moment the soldiers were in a haze, unsure of what had just happened, but it didn't take long for them to figure it out. They began to fire madly all over the ridgeline that Booth and Parker were occupying. It was clear they didn't know where the two of them were, but they were firing wildly and at some point an errant round may strike the two of them. It was time to egress._

"_We're moving!" Booth ordered. The duo collected their gear with haste and began to stalk their way up and over the ridgeline just as heavy machine gun rounds started to paint the area around them with lead death. _

_They moved briskly, as quickly as they could to avoid being detected—their ghillie suits did well to hide them from their aggressors. However, luck did not hold out forever and just as they were about to crest the ridgeline a heavy round managed to strike Corporal Parker. He stumbled forward, his carbine clattering along the ground before him. _

_Booth halted in place and turned immediately to give aide to his fallen spotter. The young Corporal was coughing up blood and it was immediately evident to Booth that he had a sucking chest wound. Under heavy fire he did what he could to treat the wound, which was serious, pressing a pressure dressing with the necessary plastic lining over the wound. He made sure to leave one flap of the plastic covering open so that air could escape. He heaved Parker onto his back with some difficulty and the Corporal cried out as he did so._

_Under a serious hail of gunfire Booth sprinted over the ridgeline and down the opposite end of the hill. He ran as fast as he could and as far as he could before finally slowing down when he reached a heavily wooded area. It was fifteen klicks to the extraction site and he would have to carry Corporal Parker the whole way, but he would. It wasn't a matter of duty or responsibility, this man was his protégé, his friend—a brother even. _

_As he hoofed the difficult route to the location of where a helicopter was waiting Booth did his best to assure his friend of his safety and recovery, telling him that things would be okay, that they would see a Flyers game when they returned home just as they had talked about. He told Parker that before he knew it he'd be fit and trim with a purple heart pinned on his chest and the affection of all the ladies back at the bars near Fort Bragg. After some time, Parker's moaning fell silent, but Booth continued to explain their future plans together and how well Parker had performed during their mission. _

_When they reached the site the helicopter was in fact still waiting, but just barely. A team of soldiers ran to assist Booth and the group boarded the CH-47 Chinook, which lifted off from the valley floor and into the cloudy afternoon sky. _

_Booth frantically explained the wound which had affected his friend to the medic aboard the helicopter. _

"_I got a dressing on there fast. I think—I think he should be good," Booth exclaimed with exhaustion. He was covered in the blood of his friend; sweat glistened upon his face where the camouflaged paint was now beginning to wear off. He was dehydrated and almost in a daze._

_The medic worked furiously for a few moments, but then seemed to give up with a sort reluctance._

"_What are you doing, Doc?" Booth asked, frenzied._

"_I'm sorry, Sergeant," the medic replied ruefully._

"_Sorry? What—no, no—don't say that, don't you tell me that!" Booth snapped, stepping forward shakily. "Fix him damn it, he's fine. I put a dressing on him… I controlled the bleeding, fix him!" _

"_He lost too much blood, Sergeant. By the looks of him I'd say he's been dead about an hour or so, he's too far gone," the Medic told him with remorse. _

_Booth dropped down beside his friend. His eyes were open still, but they were vacant of any signs of life. Blood had dried upon his face where the young man had coughed it up over Booth's long march to the extraction site. _

_Booth's heart sank, his mouth was agape and a stinging lump in his throat formed. His eyes began to water, but no tear formed, no drop rolled down his haggard visage. He closed his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head endlessly as if this entire situation was just a dream. It had to be, he had fallen asleep on the ridgeline behind the scope of his rifle and any second Parker would wake him up and chide him for it. But his eyes opened and he was still inside the noisy helicopter, still surrounded by solemn troops who felt terribly for him._

_Parker… Parker…_

A loud and repeated knocking sound upon the door of Booth's apartment broke him from his reverie. He shook his head and rubbed his face methodically before rising from his couch and crossing the wood floor to the door which he swung open with little effort.

Dr. Temperance Brennan stood on the other side.

"Booth I thought we could discuss the=" she paused, noticing the look of despair that seemed to inhabit his eyes. "Are you okay?" she questioned hesitantly.

"Yeah… yeah I'm good Bones. Listen, you think we can save this for another time?" he asked hesitantly.

"Certainly, I only thought you'd want to know about what Hodgins found, but if you're busy then I understand," she said. She stood on her tip-toes in an attempt to see behind Booth and into his apartment. She noticed the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table in front of Booth's couch.

"Yeah, tomorrow would just be better," Booth agreed, rubbing his eyes.

"Booth…" Brennan began. "Have you been drinking?" she asked, almost surprised at the idea of it.

"What? No. No, no why—why would I be drinking?" he asked incredulously. She looked at him expectantly, clearly disbelieving. "Okay yes, I had a couple of drinks."

Brennan uncharacteristically pushed her way into his apartment after his awkward admission. She wasn't a people person, everyone that knew her was well aware of that. It was Booth's sphere, what he knew and what he did best. He was the humanist that complimented her brilliance in science and that's what made them such a successful pairing. Despite her lack of talent in the human sphere she could tell something was wrong with her partner. His face was constrained, the rims around his eyes red and almost puffy. She had never seen him like this.

"What's wrong Booth?" she asked, turning around and addressing him. Her blue eyes studying him as if her skill with anthropology could somehow define his issues into something she could understand.

"Nothing, Bones, c'mon, nothing is wrong. Look, I'm as happy as a clam!" he exclaimed, pointing at his face and forcing a broad smile. She didn't buy it.

She walked over to the table and sat down upon his couch. There was a shot glass beside the bottle but it didn't appear to have been used. He must've just drunk straight from the bottle. She poured herself a shot and then downed it, grimacing from the taste of the fiery liquid.

"What are you doing?" he questioned her with some confusion.

"Ick, this stuff isn't very good," she winced.

"Well not everyone is rich enough to afford the top shelf stuff, Bones," he commented, joking about her wealth that she'd accumulated thanks to her work as an author. The thoughts of his past began to fade. "So what are you doing here?" he pressed.

"I told you. I was going to tell you what Hodgins found, but you don't seem to be in the mood for work," she explained.

"So?"

"So, there's obviously something on your mind. Why don't you tell me?" she insisted.

"Look Bones, there's nothing on my mind, okay? It's just stuff from a long time ago, it's really not a big deal," he maintained his barrier. It was true that the two of them had grown far closer in their years of working with one another. In fact, Booth found himself believing Bones was probably the most important person in his life after his son. He'd do anything for her, but there were still some things he just didn't want her to know. To her, he was a happy almost carefree man who had skeletons in his closet but knew how to control them and didn't let them affect him. He had a handle on his past; at least he wanted her to think that. He certainly didn't want her to know about his time taking lives. She knew it was who he had been, but she didn't know much.

"Okay, fine," she accepted his response. Booth was stubborn, that was something she'd learned very early on about him. She wouldn't press the question any further—it would only antagonize him and she didn't want that. However, she didn't want him to be alone, didn't want him to continue down whatever sad path he was carrying himself before she arrived. She was naïve, but not _that_ naïve. Booth had a sordid career and a life with many varying experiences. Some of them were bound to haunt him.

Brennan didn't know how to comfort him; she didn't know how to comfort anyone. But maybe if she stayed, maybe if she spent some time with him then she could take his mind off whatever it was that was troubling him.

"Oh!" she began excitedly, snatching up the tv remote. "Its hockey season isn't it? I think the Pittsburgh Flyers are playing right now!"

"Bones…" Booth began, shaking his head. "It's the Pittsburgh Penguins, not the Pittsburgh Flyers. The Flyers are from Philadelphia." A small smirk crept onto his face.

"Well this team in red is playing the one in orange and white," she observed, motioning to the television. "So, why don't we watch it?"

Booth sighed with a false show of exasperation. "All right Bones, let's watch the game."

He walked over to the couch beside her and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. She inched a bit closer to him, almost unnoticeably so, but Booth could sense the shift of weight on the sofa cushion. A minor grin appeared upon his face as he watched her attempt to look as if she was interested in the hockey game. His arm reached up on the sofa and rested across the top just behind her slender shoulders and his troubled thoughts soon disappeared…


	2. Chapter 2

An agitated Special Agent Seeley Booth paced back and forth upon the raised platform of the Jeffersonian Institute's Medico-Legal Lab where Dr. Temperance Brennan performed her thorough investigations into the remains of dozens upon dozens of murder victims along with her team of professional support staff, colloquially referred to as squints by Agent Booth.

Booth had not been himself, at the moment he was impatient, and angry almost at the time it was taking Brennan and her team to discover the cause of death of their current victim.

The group of highly intelligent squints worked diligently over the victim's corpse—a heavily decomposed figure that appeared to have a shattered Ilium, several broken lower lumbar vertebrae and a cracked distal ulna on the victim's right arm.

The initial injures discovered were that of the Ilium and the lower lumbar vertebrae which were quite evident due to the extensive damage and the severe amount of decomposition in that region of the victim's body. However, the upper portion of the victim's thoracic cage still had a degree of intact flesh. Doctor Brennan had noticed the break in the distal portion of the victim's right ulna after cutting away some of the severely dissolved Extensor indicis muscle.

According to Brennan, the injuries the victim sustained in his lower lumbar region and pelvis were indicative of a large object crashing into the victim with great force, largely congruent with a motor vehicle. However, upon closer inspection of the ulna she noted that the break appeared entirely too clean and didn't seem to be related to the pelvic or lower back injuries.

Booth had pestered her and her staff for a definitive cause of death analysis, but Brennan protested his demands and told him that they would not know until all of the flesh had been removed and after Dr. Saroyan had performed her cursory examination, much to Agent Booth's chagrin.

"C'mon people, how hard can it be?" he asked irritated. "We've done this a thousand times; how is this guy any different?"

"You of all people should know each case is different, Booth," Bones replied with equal irritation. Something was amiss with her partner. "Each injury is indicative of something that happened to our victim, without a thorough investigation of the remains we can't be one hundred percent certain of cause of death. This isn't anything new, why are you being this way?"

"Being what way? Look, I've got the Deputy Director breathing down my neck about this guy. Everyone from the Department of Justice on down to the Department of the Treasury want to know if this was foul play or not," Booth shot back.

"Is the Deputy Director of the FBI suddenly so concerned because this guy is a major hedge fund manager and a former Deputy Secretary of the Treasury? Funny how your bosses only harp on us about time limits when it's someone important from the government," Dr. Jack Hodgins observed. "Just goes to show you the big guys upstairs only care about you if you're one of them."

"How about they're concerned because he was under investigation for running one of the largest Ponzi schemes in the history of the United States which has got a lot of people hot and bothered considering his personal friendship with the current Secretary of the Treasury and the Vice President?" Booth responded passionately.

"So we can expect facts to be twisted to suit the powers that be?" Hodgins said half-jokingly in his usual conspiratorial manner.

"No, but you can expect me to shoot you if you don't shut up and find out what I need to know," Booth snapped with some venom.

All of the Jeffersonian Institute personnel stopped momentarily and glared at the FBI agent as an awkward silence fell over the examination platform.

"Is everything okay, Seeley?" Dr. Saroyan asked after a few moments.

"What? Yes, everything is fine," Booth let out an exasperated sigh. "Bones… just call me when you've got something."

With that the experienced law enforcement agent stepped off the platform and exited the Medico-Legal labs whilst shaking his head in a seemingly agitated manner. His gait seemed to indicate he was extremely annoyed.

"Exactly what was that about?" Angele Montenegro asked curiously, having seen Agent Booth rarely act out in such a manner.

"I'm not certain. Last night I stopped by his apartment and he was agitated. He'd been drinking and seemed distracted by something, but he wouldn't tell me what," Brennan exclaimed.

"Booth drinking? Like drinking a beer and watching tv or drinking alone and feeling sorry for himself?" Angela asked with a raised brow.

"The latter… I think," Brennan responded with pursed lips.

"I'd have to see that to believe it," Angela said back.

"Oh don't sound so surprised. Years ago Seeley used to have bouts with alcohol. He's seen quite a bit of terrible things in his life," Dr. Saroyan offered.

"But haven't we all? I mean, God, it seems like every week we cart in another poor soul that's been brutalized by some psycho out there," Angela countered.

"But Booth has done terrible things to people," Bones pointed out. "He's never been very open about it, but he's taken a lot of people's lives and I think it weighs heavily on him."

"Then let's ease his burden and find the cause of death on our victim here," Dr. Saroyan suggested. With those words the staff went back to work, as professionally and proficiently as they ever did.

Brennan's eyes lingered on the door that Booth had stormed through. She exhibited a look of concern and in fact she was. Booth was acting strangely out of character the last few days and his outburst today only presented that further.

It seemed impossible to Brennan that Booth could ever let his emotions get the better of him. It was true he was incredibly protective of her and in the vein he'd let his emotions lash out, mainly at other people and he was passionate when he defended his faith, but both of those examples were wholly different than what she saw in him today or the previous night for that matter.

The idea that he was in distress upset her. He'd always done so much to alleviate her angst and difficulty that she now seemed foolish for not being able to contribute the same service. He'd always been there offering a carefree smile or a charming glint in his deep brown eyes which were always reassuring—it was the face of a man that no matter what he said you felt secure in the knowledge that he knew exactly what he was saying and he would always be right.

She banished the negative thoughts after a few moments and returned to the task at hand—identifying the cause of death. In this way, perhaps she could help Booth. It was her way after all and she was the best at it. After she finished that she would seek him out and pester him despite the fact that she had decided not to do so the previous evening at his apartment.

Booth sat at the bar of the King's Diner, his and his colleagues most frequented haunt. He picked at a piece of cherry pie, which he seemed to gaze at dispassionately. His fork probed the half-eaten pastry while his other hand propped up his sagging head. Thoughts traveled back to a rain-soaked afternoon at Arlington National Cemetery.

_Sergeant Seeley Booth, Alpha Company, 1__st__ Ranger Battalion, 75__th__ Ranger Regiment, stood clad in his US Army service uniform, commonly known within the ranks as the Class A's. He wore a black beret atop his trimmed hair, indicative of his status as an Army Ranger. Also indicative of his status as an elite Ranger was the fact that his trousers were bloused within spit-shined black jump boots. This practice was only allowable if the soldier was an airborne paratrooper, Special Forces, or a Ranger. _

_Upon the left side of his broad chest sat several rows of colorful ribbons denoting the awards he'd earned during his service in the Army. Above those ribbons was the distinctive Combat Infantryman's Badge, an award given to infantry or Special Forces personnel who had personally participated in active ground combat. It appeared as a wreath which incased the revolutionary war era Springfield armory musket upon a rectangular field of blue. Sergeant Booth's badge had a star on it centered just above the musket and blue field indicating it was his second award._

_He stood somberly observing the memorial display unfolding before him, his rigid demeanor befitting a soldier and a man of his discipline. _

_A group of soldiers, similarly dressed, were arrayed around an oak casket which sat ready to be lowered into the rain-soaked ground. Opposite the soldiers was a formation of civilians dressed in black, standing ominously with an assortment of umbrellas clasped in their hands. _

_Unlike their civilian counterparts the soldiers that were aligned in neat queues did not carry umbrellas. Instead, they allowed the rain to pelt them and soak their uniforms. Booth stood at the far right side of the first rank and watched the honor guard march off to the left of the assembled people unblinkingly. They clutched M14 service rifles within their sopping wet, gloved-hands. _

_Within the confines of that container was his friend and young protégé, Corporal Edward Parker. He'd served just over two years with Booth and had come to the Sergeant as a wet-behind the ears young man anxious for a fight. The young Corporal immediately looked up to his senior Sergeant, who was considered a seasoned veteran as he had served in the Gulf War and had even survived captivity and torture, something he never detailed to Parker (though he was aware it had occurred). _

_When they had arrived in the former Yugoslavia Sergeant Booth had painstakingly taken the time to detail everything he knew to young Parker. It was his job, after all, as the senior sniper and the shooter of their pair. Parker had yet to attend the US Army's Sniper School. He'd passed the Unit's Indoctrination course and as a result was assigned to a Surveillance and Target Acquisition Team within Alpha Company, but officially he was not a sniper. Time constrictions due to the immediate deployment of their Battalion to the Balkans had prevented him from completing the sniper course._

_As a result it was much more important that Booth train him adequately so that he understood every facet of this highly-dangerous occupation. Booth had spent time teaching Parker about camouflaging himself, utilizing the natural contours of terrain, how to stalk a target in broad daylight and in the dead of night, how to 'burn through' foliage with his eyes in order to survey a target without needlessly exposing oneself from concealment. He'd spent time personally constructing his spotter's ghillie suit to ensure it was adequately made, taught him the finer points of marksmanship and how to fine tune his natural talent. He'd even taken it upon himself to detail to the Corporal all of the delicious combinations of food that could be constructed from various Meals Ready to Eat. _

"_See when they designed these things they didn't come up with good combinations. Instead you have to tear open a few different packages and pick and choose what you want to actually find a meal you want to eat, but don't tell anyone I told you this because it makes people angry," he had said. _

_But despite Booth's excessive training and tutelage, despite the promises and assurances he'd made to Corporal Edward Parker… he had failed to bring him home alive. Booth couldn't help but feel responsible for his friend's demise as he watched the honor guard snap to attention and present their weapons. _

_Was there something he'd missed? Did he remember to teach Parker everything he knew himself? They'd poured over every T and R manual Booth owned, spent hours upon hours chalk talking various outcomes to possible operations and events. Parker had even begun to get some experience as the two had completed at least a dozen surveillance and recon operations before the fateful mission to kill General Radic. They succeeded but Booth felt it was an empty victory because he could not share it with his protégé. Did Parker know his help was instrumental in the success? Without his accurate range estimation and wind calculations Booth may have missed._

_In fact he felt guilt when he considered that possibility. It was minute in reality, Booth was so skilled he could perform range estimation and calculate windage without any help from a spotter and he was aware of that deep down, but even within his own mind he repressed the idea of it, repeatedly telling himself that he had needed Parker's help and that without it he would've been as useless as an untrained boy scout. _

_His thoughts were interrupted by the call to present arms and the sadly familiar tune of taps was played and then the all too familiar crack of gunfire as the Honor Guard presented their weapons and fired, cycled the action of their rifles and fired again and again and again._

_Each shot reminded him of the critical bullet that Booth had fired through General Radic's heart, thus completing their mission and compromising his and Parker's position. Had he made the right call to pull the trigger? There was a company sized element in the valley below completely surrounding their target. Perhaps it would've been wiser to postpone the shot when it was safer and there was a better chance for a stealthy egress. His choice had gotten Parker killed and Booth was having a terribly difficult time trying to decide if Radic's death was worth Parker's life. _

_A detachment of soldiers marched toward the flag-draped coffin; Booth's ever-gazing eyes watched them ceaselessly. They halted before the casket then proceeded to fold the flag into its ceremonial tri-folded state. As the senior man, a Sergeant First class, finished tucking the flag into its necessary folds he saluted and then handed the triangular American flag to an officer; a Captain more precisely and the Company commander of Alpha Company. _

_The Captain turned sharply and marched over to the assembled civilians. He presented the flag to Corporal Parker's mother who stood sobbing beside Parker's rigid father and equally distraught girlfriend. Booth had never met any of them, he'd only known of them from Parker's stories; especially those concerning his girlfriend, Lauren._

_The Captain snapped a crisp salute and thanked Parker's mother for his service and his sacrifice, lamenting the loss of such a good soldier. His mother accepted the flag, but not without a great deal of tears. With that completed, the Captain turned on his heel and marched away to leave his family to grieve. _

"_Dismissed!" the First Sergeant cried out, and the formation of soldiers began to break up and scatter. _

_Parker's family had already begun to make a move for a string of cars that were waiting. Booth watched them anxiously. Go say something… his mind screamed, but his feet were like cement blocks and his heart sank at the sight of Parker's mother and girlfriend. How can you face them? You're the cause of their grief, you're the reason his parents will never see Parker grow old, why Lauren will never have a husband… you caused all of that Seeley Booth and now you're too frightened to admit that to them. _

"How long have you been picking at that?" Brennan's familiar voice shattered Booth's thoughts.

"Huh? What?" Booth stuttered, attempting to rejoin reality.

"The pie," she indicated.

"A few minutes I guess," Booth admitted with a sniff, attempting to compose himself. The truth was it had been far longer.

"I've got your results. Definitely foul play," Brennan offered, tossing the case file on the counter beside Booth's half-eaten pie. "After a secondary re-examination once Mr. Nigel-Murray had stripped the bones he noticed the hyoid was cracked and there was additional damage to the victim's scapula. Looks like our friend had his arm restrained behind him and then choked, at which point he fought back, had his forearm snapped and then strangled to death. It appears he was left in the road and run over with car afterward in a poor attempt to cover up cause of death. It was actually a pretty shoddy job and we should've noticed sooner."

Booth sat staring at the file, he didn't bother opening it—he just gazed at the cover and then considered Brennan's somewhat out of place admission regarding the fact that her team should've discovered that foul play was evident much sooner. He knew that wasn't true, she was only saying it because she saw something was wrong with him. Guilt pressed him. "No… no Bones, it shouldn't have been sooner. You have a process, you needed one hundred percent proof, you needed the facts and I was being impatient. I'm the one that should be saying sorry."

He turned and looked at her apologetically. A slight smirk appeared in the corner of her mouth, not because he admitted he was wrong, but because of the way he looked at her and the way he expressed so much emotion in something as simple as glance.

"I accept your apology," she nodded, then sat down beside him. "I think maybe now you should tell me what is bothering you."

Booth let out a heavy sigh and looked back at his pie, picking up the fork and then prodding the baked item once more. "I don't know, Bones," he began. "You know… I've done a lot of bad things."

"You served your country; you did what you were ordered to do. Nothing more," Brennan replied immediately, concern evident in her tone.

"It's not that… I mean it is, but it's so much more," he exclaimed uneasily.

"Is this about your friend Parker?" she asked, showing a great degree of intuition.

Booth was quiet, glaring at his pie, poking it repeatedly. Finally he looked at her; grief replaced the apologetic appearance his eyes had displayed previously. He pursed his lips. "I got him killed, Bones."

Bones jaw dropped a few degrees and she canted her head, her eyes melting into a show of disbelief. How could Booth even think such a horrible thing? "No, Booth, no, no, no. You can't possibly believe that."

He dropped his fork and his hand reached up to rub tired, sleep deprived eyes. "I'm a coward, Bones, a damn coward," he admitted heavily.

"That's impossible, Booth. You're the bravest person I've ever known; I can't listen to you say these things anymore," she blurted in response. Her hand reached out and rested upon his forearm, rubbing it methodically. "Why… would you ever say that about yourself?"

Booth paused, his head dropped back and his eyes looked up at the ceiling of the restaurant. He closed his eyes lightly, sighed once more then began to speak. "After Parker died… at his funeral, his family was there. His mom, dad, his girlfriend… I never spoke to them, never told them who I was, what Parker meant to me, what happened to him… I was… afraid… I couldn't—couldn't face them knowing that I didn't prepare him, didn't train him well enough," Booth began to show signs of distress as his forehead wrinkled in aggravation. He dropped his head once more peering down at the pie before him.

"Booth, you're not a coward. What you experienced-- anyone in your position would experience that," Brennan desperately attempted to allay his grief, but she felt it wasn't enough. Damn it, how could she get through to him? Why couldn't she find the appropriate words to reassure him? To make him feel right with the world again, like he'd been able to do for her so many times before.

"I have to make this right… somehow," he muttered, pressing his exhausted face into calloused hands.

Brennan was quiet, her hand had since dropped to the counter and her concerned eyes could do nothing but observe her tormented partner. Then an idea came to her.

"What if… what if you go to their home and… and you tell them what you didn't tell them that day?" she suggested sheepishly, unsure how he'd respond.

He dropped his hands and thought for a few moments. He was older now, wiser and more mature. The sting of Parker's loss was still strong as was the guilt which beat with every thump of his heart, but Bones was right. Booth had to do this, not just for his own salvation, but because Parker and his family deserved it. It was an old wound that lay open and Booth needed to heal it.

"Yeah… that would be good," he quietly stated. He rose from his chair, rifling through his pockets for a few bills to pay for his unfinished pie. "I'm going to do that. Thanks, Bones."

"Well, not without me you're not," she replied immediately, standing up before him.

"What?" he questioned with a piqued brow.

"Unless you don't want me to," she responded hastily and somewhat awkwardly.

A dumb smile crossed Booth's face and he silently chuckled, looking away from his socially inept partner for a moment. "No, I would like that a lot actually."


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks passed and the case Booth and Brennan had been working on was solved and decreased the stress that was weighing heavily upon Booth. After the completion of the case he was finally able to take the trip that Brennan had suggested; he would go and visit Parker's parents.

A quick search of the FBI database came up with an address not far from Washington D.C., a home in the small town of Haymarket, Virginia—which was in Prince William County, a region Booth was familiar with thanks to the twenty two weeks he spent at Quantico and the FBI Academy. It would only take a few hours for him and Bones to make the drive down and visit their home.

Booth was quiet while driving, his arm rested casually on the window sill of his Suburban, a nervous finger tapped at his chin while he gazed at the road ahead. He was trying to come up with the words he would say to Parker's parents. It was awfully audacious of him to show up on their doorstep fifteen years after the death of their son. He had no idea what to expect and found himself at a loss for words. He was used to this sort of thing—telling families about the deaths of their loved ones. It was no easy task, even when he was speaking about someone he knew nothing about, but he was good at it. However, this was a personal matter and seemed wholly different.

Brennan was also silent, but sat almost uncomfortably in the passenger seat beside Booth. She anxiously glanced at her partner, then out of the window at the surrounding countryside. It was spring time, the weather was gorgeous and the heavily wooded regions just off the highway were vibrant and green. She even noticed a few deer as they progressed down the road. She took pleasure from what she saw, momentarily cracking a grin as she basked in the luminescent glow of the sun beaming in through her window and enjoying every bit of the flora and fauna they passed by. She felt guilt for this immediately, however, considering the nature of their trip and the unimaginable amount of grief that was troubling her partner.

Suddenly Booth was forced to swerve just as a small Volkswagen Golf veered dangerously close to the front of the Suburban. After crossing into the lane to his right, Booth swerved back into the center lane of the highway.

"What the hell?" he cursed. "I ought to pull that jerk over!" The Golf accelerated and sped off, quickly leaving Booth and Brennan behind.

"Do you want me to drive?" Brennan offered, noting Booth's irritation.

"No, why would I want you to do drive?" he replied shaking his head.

"You seem distracted," Brennan said in her usual cold, observant tone.

"Well of course I'm distracted, Bones, I'm trying to figure out what to tell them," Booth explained, sighing.

"Just speak from your heart. That's what you always tell me—you're pretty good at that and it seems to work," Bones suggested.

"Bones, this isn't like trying to reassure some victim's family, or breaking a suspect in an interrogation… this is… I'm talking about people I avoided years ago at Parker's funeral. How are they going to react when they see me now after all these years?" Booth exclaimed passionately.

"They should be happy you've come forward to speak with them, even after all of these years. It's certainly better than never knowing what their son meant to you."

"They're going to ask me how he died," Booth guessed confidently

"Why? How do you know?" Brennan questioned curiously, concern appearing on her face.

"They always want to know," Booth answered. It was true and Brennan realized that after a moment of thought. How many parents or loved ones of the victims whose deaths they investigated had asked how they'd died. Nearly all of them, that was the fact, based on anecdotal evidence anyway; Brennan never really kept a record of that information.

It was the same for the parents of men who fell while fighting for their country overseas. Booth knew that, Parker wasn't his first friend to fall in the line of duty. He'd remembered others from his time in the Gulf. During memorial services and funerals the parents had always questioned the men who knew their children, asked them everything about their last moments on Earth. It was an uncomfortable position for any man to try and explain—it wasn't one that any of Booth and his comrades had ever wanted to explain.

In war men—young men, died in gruesome ways. A mother remembers her son as the spit and polish, proud, broad-chested young serviceman that valiantly marched off to far away shores on behalf of the stars and stripes; no one felt it was their place to describe how indignant and terribly saddening death was and thus destroy that memory. But after all these years if Parker's parents asked then Booth would almost feel obliged to tell them. He'd neglected how they felt years ago and he owed them that much.

They travelled for several hours before finally reaching the town's limits. It was a tiny place, census information had put the population at somewhere around 850 people and if someone was driving fast enough and blinked long enough they just may have missed it entirely. Aside from a few quaint shops along a central drag in the town there wasn't any high concentration of buildings or neighborhoods and Booth knew all too well from the information he'd pulled from the database that the place he was looking for was more rural, like a farm. He turned left on a small two lane road flanked by aged elm trees which took him a few miles east of the town.

"It's beautiful here," Brennan discerned gazing out onto infinitely lush green pastures which collided seamlessly with thick foliage a hundred meters off in the distance. The sun shone brightly upon their car as they traveled down the small municipal road.

"Yeah, Parker used to tell me what it was like growing up here. Said it drove him crazy how small it was, not even a single stop light—but once we got to the Balkans he kept talking about how he couldn't wait to come home," Booth reminisced. He was also quite taken by the beauty of the landscape around them, it was incredibly peaceful. He'd often forgotten how wonderful nature was in its basic form. This was certainly the sort of small, idyllic town a person would remember when off in some far flung hell hole. While the Balkans was beautiful in its own right, that beauty was greatly marred by the savagery and destruction taking place there. This town, by contrast, was the exact opposite.

"It's very serene; I can understand his desire to return," Brennan admitted. It reminded her of her home where her parents raised her before their disappearance. She had such fond memories from those days with Rusty and her mother and father. She banished the thoughts quickly, however, not wishing to revisit them at the moment.

Their vehicle pulled onto a dirt road which ran approximately two hundred meters. A white fence ran parallel to the road which finally dead-ended into a lot flanked by a large old house and a barn. The house was in decent shape, despite its age being obvious. Its blue paint was chipped and the wooden walls were somewhat decayed.

As the car halted Booth threw it into park and shut off the engine, then stepped out and surveyed the scene around him. It was picturesque, almost how he had imagined it on the long cold nights when Parker had described it to him.

"Can I help you?" an aged man asked, approaching from the field nearby, a shovel in hand. He was stiff and stood erect quite admirably despite his apparent age.

"Mr. Parker?" Booth asked, somewhat nervously as Brennan rounded the hood of the car and appeared beside him. "I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth with the FBI." Ah, there he went acting so official as if this was any old business related visit.

"And I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute," Bones suddenly blurted.

The man paused; his brow was raised by these two newcomers to his small bit of property. "Okay… so what can I do for you?" he asked somewhat suspiciously.

"I'm… I'm here about your son, Edward," Booth admitted sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

"What did you say your name was again?" the elder Parker asked, canting his head as a look of recollection appeared upon his façade.

"Seeley Booth."

"I'm Thomas Parker," the man offered a hand, which Booth and Brennan both shook. "Why don't we head over to the porch?" Thomas Parker hefted his shovel and led the duo over toward the front of his domicile. The boards were aged, but had recently been repainted. The weathered planks creaked with every step they took. Thomas offered them both a seat which they took and then explained that he would return with some refreshments despite their insisting that it was unnecessary.

"He seems nice," Brennan stated, looking around the house as she sat down in a wicker chair.

Booth noted the comment, but said nothing. His eyes were drawn to a large tree a few meters from the house. High up in its branches was a shoddy old tree-house, clearly it had not been used in years. He sighed.

After a few moments Thomas returned with a tray with a carafe of lemonade and several glasses. He set the tray down on the table that was centered between two sets of wicker lounge chairs. He poured his guests a glass then took a seat. Booth did the same, sitting across from him.

"So, what did you want to tell me about my son?" he asked interestedly, making himself comfortable in his chair.

Booth looked around the premises for a moment. His brown eyes betrayed nervousness and a level of uncertainty. "Is Mrs. Parker here?" he asked hesitantly.

"Unfortunately no," Thomas replied with a rueful shake of his head. "She died three years ago of pancreatic cancer."

"Very sorry for your loss," Booth stated, clearing his throat. "About why I'm here…" he trailed off for a second, blinking endlessly. He glanced at the field beside the house once more and his eyes traveled up to the boughs above where the unused tree-house sat idly. Thoughts of a child-like Corporal Parker playing within the house suddenly appeared and then, much stranger, thoughts of his own son Parker doing so. Odd. He blinked continuously trying to clear his mind then shook his head before returning his attention to Thomas.

"I served with your son… I was his team leader… his partner," Booth admitted, anxiously sipping at the lemonade Thomas had poured.

Brennan watched quietly, she had never seen Booth struggle to express himself quite like he was now.

"I know," Thomas responded, pursing his lips in contemplation. "Parker wrote about you quite a bit. He said many great things about you, Sergeant." Thomas had a good memory, perhaps he had re-read his sons letters. Fifteen years later and he was still able to remember the rank of the man that was responsible for his son's life.

"My wife and I were sorry to miss you at his funeral."

"I was there, sir."

"Oh," Thomas cocked his head slightly and thought for a moment, confused by the admission.

"I uh… I was too afraid to speak to you," Booth muttered.

"What for?"

"I… I…" Booth hesitated. He looked at Brennan who urged him on with her caring eyes. "I feel responsible… for what happened to Teddy."

Thomas closed his eyes, his face appeared serene and he exhaled a heavy gust of air then nodded as if he was saying something to himself. "No, that is just absurd, Sergeant."

"We were on a mission, our job was to stop a certain General and—" Booth was stopped mid-sentence by Thomas.

"You don't need to explain yourself or what happened, Sergeant," Thomas assured him.

"But… don't you want to know what happened? Don't you…" Booth trailed off. _Don't you want to hear me take responsibility for your son's death?_

"Follow me please," Thomas said, rising from his chair with some difficulty. He led the two admittedly curious people into his home.

Inside was modest, spartan almost. But it was very clean. Along the wall was a large shelf containing many trophies and awards, all of them belonged to a young Edward Parker.

"Your son was quite the athlete," Brennan complimented, feeling she had to say something.

"Yes, he played football and baseball, but he really loved track and cross country," Thomas agreed. As they passed the shelf they saw another smaller book case. Here were several photographs on display from Parker's time in the Army. A shot of him at graduation from both recruit training and from Ranger School as well as a singular shot of Parker on deployment in Yugoslavia. A fit, trim young man stood next to him in the photo, practically towering over him.

Booth picked up the picture and glanced at it. "This is me," he said, a smile breaking the grievous look upon his face from before as memories of that day came back to him. "Parker said he wanted a shot to send back home. I was laughing because he wanted it to look like a Rambo picture, shirts off holding as many guns as we could." The picture was quite the opposite, just two men standing casually with broad smiles in their camouflage utilities and large floppy hats nearly concealing their faces, which had been painted for the sake of an upcoming sneaking mission.

Booth set the photograph down and followed Thomas into the next room. Brennan, however, lingered for a moment and picked up the picture that he had just replaced on the shelf. She studied it carefully, taking in the sight of Booth in his military fatigues. He seemed very happy in the photo, something she found odd considering the fact that it was taken in the middle of a warzone.

In the next room there were more photographs, but they were old and sun bleached. A few plaques hung on the wall, all of them listed Thomas' name and rank on them.

"You see, Sergeant Booth, I was in the service as well. Eight years with the 101st Airborne and two tours in Vietnam before I was medically discharged," Thomas said, motioning to the pictures. Brennan soon materialized in the room as well and began looking at the many old photographs of the elder Parker and the men he'd served with.

"Parker said you were a veteran, but didn't mention much more," Booth commented.

"Yes, he used to gaze at this wall like it was put there by God almighty himself. He played soldier in the fields with his friends, demanded I teach him to shoot and hunt as soon as he was able. All he ever wanted to be was a soldier and I think it's fair to say that my influence had a heavy hand in that desire," Thomas explained. "So by the extension one might say that _I_ am in fact responsible for the death of my son." He looked over at Booth seriously.

"No, no, that's ridiculous," Booth remarked, shaking his head fervently.

"Exactly; so is the notion that you were responsible. I know what you've thought since you came home, that feeling of guilt and endless remorse. Always questioning your actions and what you could've done to make things right. Why had you been so lucky to survive when he had not? I was in your shoes once, Sergeant," he motioned to a photograph clearly taken during Vietnam. A group of young men stood clad in their OD green uniforms amidst a muddy backdrop. It was black and white, unlike several of the others. Brennan observed the men were all smiling in the photo as well.

"I buried eighteen of these men in south-east Asia, Sergeant. Not a day goes by where I don't consider the actions I took or the orders I gave. But I'll tell you that I've given up trying to take responsibility for their deaths. I realized a long time ago that war is a terrible, costly thing. It consumes all life and destroys everything we cherish. We march off to face uncertainty, we follow orders, we fight other young men and we die. All along that path we believe we have some form of control, but the truth is that we simply do not. There are higher powers at work, Sergeant, and they decide our fate by simple chance," Thomas stated. He turned to face Booth. "We had a saying in Lam Son—'When your time is up, your time is up'."

He rested a hand on Booth's shoulder. "My son didn't die because of anything you did or didn't do, Sergeant, he did because he was an unfortunate soul whose time on this Earth was deemed over by something or someone bigger that you and I."

"Are you a very religious man, Mr. Parker?" Brennan asked curiously. Booth shot her an irritated glance and she mimicked a display of apology to him.

Thomas glanced at her and smiled. "No, Dr. Brennan, I am not. I've seen enough horror on the battlefield to make me question everything I ever learned as a boy during Sunday mass, but I've also seen strange and miraculous things that can't be explained by anything other than the unexplainable."

Brennan nodded, accepting his response for what it was.

"Sergeant, I want to thank you for coming out here and seeing me. My son spoke very highly of you and I can see why, you're a good man, it doesn't take a psychology expert to see that. I want you to remember what I've said if you ever have such nasty thoughts again and please remember that Parker is always with you, keeping an eye on your six just like you taught him—he's just doing it from a higher elevation," Thomas asserted with a smirk.

Booth was awestruck. It was amazing what Thomas had said and how he had come to terms with the death of his son. But then he had likely survived countless horrors during his time in Vietnam and was likely very good at rationalizing death—something that Booth had been decent at, but never on such a level. He respected Thomas Parker greatly for his words and his sentiment. He thanked him and after a few more lingering moments he and Bones left.

"I am really glad you suggested this, Bones," he said, relieved as they drove away from the old home, Thomas Parker waving in the background.

"Yes. I am as well. It's good to see your mind at ease," Bones added.

"You know you always learn something new," Booth said nodding with a smile. "That guy—that guy back there, you know he's survived some horrible stuff. Me and the guys always had so much respect for the troops that slugged it out through the fights like World War II, Korea, or Vietnam. I mean we thought we were tough, but guys like that, they were the real deal. I come out here trying to express something I can't even put into words and he set me straight… he set me straight, Bones."

"I learned something new as well," Bones interjected, almost excitedly. Booth looked at her with an inquisitive glance. "I learned that even in the most horrible atmosphere young men forge unbreakable bonds, that they can forget whatever tragedy befalls them and live each day happily because of the brotherhood they have formed with those around them. I saw it—I saw it in the picture of you and Parker and I saw it in the pictures of Parker's father. You were all smiling, every one of you despite the wars you found yourselves in the middle of and the dangers you faced you were smiling and genuinely happy."

Booth was surprised by her observation. In truth, she was right. When Booth saw the photograph of him and Parker he didn't have a flashback of the terrible things he saw, or the deeds he had done. Instead he had memories of all of the jokes they told, the stories they shared and the pranks they pulled on one another. What he needed to take away from that place and his experiences there was the camaraderie and the brotherhood, nothing more.

"You're right," he admitted. She smiled at his admission. "So, what do you say we go get something to eat?"

THE END

Hope you all enjoyed this short story. I just watched the 100th episode last night, pretty crazy happenings. I actually like how they dealt with it, though I'm sure there are many fans that are not haha. Anyways, I may write some more Bones stuff, not sure yet, but I'm more than open to any critiques you may have regarding my story. Thanks again for reading it. The show and its characters are all creations of Hart Hanson and those involved respectively, I own none of it, merely felt inspired to write something about it.


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